Happy Ever Afters
by imitateslife
Summary: Mal Moor doesn't believe in happy endings. Diaval de Ravin doesn't believe in giving up. And Aurora believes these two are just perfect for each other. Modern, Bookshop AU. One-shot, Maleval.


The first time he pops into the bookstore, Diaval is looking for a book about birds in the tri-state area. He's new to the big city and he hates just about _everything_ about it. The congested streets. The noisy neighbors. The slate-grey sky that fills up with little more than rock pigeons. He misses the farm he grew up on, the openness, the sky. But he's determined to take his binoculars down to the park this weekend and see what birds he can spot _anyways_. Old habits die hard.

He's browsing through the non-fiction section when he sees _her._ And for a moment, everything in his body just _freezes._ He's never seen anyone quite like her. High cheekbones that look almost winglike. Lush lips that look like they haven't smiled in _years_.

"That's my Auntie Mal," a chipper voice says. He looks; a ten year old cherub is smiling up at him. "We own Moor Books."

"Do you now?" Diaval asks. The girl nods.

"I'm Aurora," she says. "And _you_ were staring at my aunt."

"I most certainly was _not_!" Diaval protests. "I was just thinking, that's all."

"Mm-hmm." Aurora doesn't sound convinced. Then, looking at the book in his hand, she says, "You might try Cornelius Corvadae's new book, if you're looking for local birds."

And like that, she's gone, Diaval can hear her humming, but the girl's disappeared behind the mountainous shelves. Again, all he can see is _her._ _Mal._

"I trust you found everything to your liking," Mal says when he checks out.

And he really is _checking out_, if that makes any sense. Closer in proximity to the strange woman, he sees that her eyes aren't _really_ green. They're the kind that change in the light, change with her mood, change like the sky or the sea. And her hair, which is pulled back elegantly – _Sexy librarian style,_ Diaval thinks – could cascade down to her waist if she'd just let it go. Not that she seems the type. Even the top button of her blouse is buttoned and there are no wrinkles on her. Not one. Not unless you count the stern lines – whispers of lines, really – that form around her mouth. He was right to think she hadn't smiled in _years._

"Everything's just beautiful," Diaval says. Mal looks at him funny and he corrects himself, "Wonderful, I mean. Thank you."

She says nothing else, doesn't even bid him a good day. Merely hands back his change (which he drops) and looks just beyond him.

In all his life, Diaval's never met someone so self-contained. It unnerves him and he can't stop thinking about it, even when he hits the park for some bird-watching that weekend. People-watching never interested him before, but this Mal struck a chord in him. It's like he _wants_ to know what she's like smiling. Or even _laughing._ It becomes his new challenge: to elicit more than polite business talk from her.

Every day for the next week, he stops by the bookshop. Each day, when he feels Mal's eyes on him, suspicious that he's been there too long, he grabs the first book he sees and buys it. By Thursday, he has four new books, none of which he plans to read. They come in varying shade of subject – from self-help to harlequin romance.

On Friday Aurora startles him.

"Back for more bird books?" she asks merrily. "How did Corvidae work for you?"

"Wonderfully," Diaval tells her. "You really know your stuff. Are you a bird enthusiast, too?"

"I like books," Aurora says, with a shrug. "Birds are all right, too, though, I guess."

"I'm a zoology professor," Diaval tells her. He doesn't know _why_ he's telling a ten year old kid that. "Birds are kind of my specialty."

"Oh," Aurora says. Then, noticing that Diaval isn't quite looking at her, she says, "But talking to women isn't, is it?"

"Didn't your Auntie Mal teach you manners?" Diaval hisses, but he's not really angry. Embarrassed, maybe.

"Didn't anyone teach _you_ manners?" Aurora retorts. She's a sassy thing, but not mean. "You'll never get anywhere if you just keep _staring_ at her."

"I most certainly am _not!"_

"Sure," Aurora says. Then, after some consideration, she says, "She likes dystopian novels."

"What?" Diaval asks.

"You're impossible," Aurora says. And she flitters off to do whatever it is ten year olds do in books stores.

Fifteen minutes later, Mal approaches him.

"You look lost," she tells him. "Are you back for more bird books?"

"No," Diaval says. "I'm- um… I'm just browsing."

Mal is just about to walk away when Diaval sees a blonde head stick out from behind the counter. Aurora looks like she's about to be sorely disappointed. Just as Mal turns, Diaval grabs her wrist. Mal opens her indignant mouth, but Diaval releases her.

"Sorry," he said. "I just… I was wondering if you could show me where the dystopian novels are."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Er, y'know… dystopian… novels… They're like-"

"I know what they are," Mal cuts him off. "It's not a _section_. It's a sub-genre."

"Right, of course," says Diaval. "Mind recommending an author or two? A friend of mine said I should give the, er, _subgenre_ a shot."

Mal considers him for a moment and leads him to the literature section. Diaval is surprised. When he thinks "dystopian literature", he thinks young adult novels about plucky protagonists fighting the system or else hardcore science fiction with scantily clad alien women. Instead, Mal takes him to the general literature section. It's not a place Diaval is overly familiar with. He hasn't really read for pleasure since before college and that was some years ago. The books here smell of must and ink; their spines are well loved and worn. She leads him to the "Z"s and pulls out a thin paperback.

The book is called "We" and the author's last name is an unpronounceable Russian word that Diaval can't wrap his tongue around. Mal thrusts the novel into Diaval's hands and she says: "Zamyatin's as good a place to start as any."

She piles on more books, working backwards through the alphabet and weighing Diaval's arms down. _This is a test,_ he thinks. And he's determined to pass it. Whatever means necessary.

He feels like a college kid, cramming for an exam. His weekend is filled with reading in the park and his binoculars go untouched. He becomes immersed in dark worlds of robot-technology and Big Brother campaigns. Each book is different, but he notices something: not a one of the books ends happily. It should disturb him that Mal's favorites end in death, destruction, and maybe a glimmer of hope if you squint hard enough.

Instead he wonders why a woman – why _anyone_, but specifically a successful businesswoman, raising a bubbly niece – would be so enthralled by _un_happy endings. When Diaval used to read for fun – all those years before textbooks and case studies dominated his life – he loved books of daring escapes and good triumphing over evil. His favorite books ended with the good guys riding off into the sunset, maybe even sharing a kiss with their leading ladies.

On Monday, Diaval's back at the bookshop, consternation tugging at his features. He's just gotten out of the university for the day, no more students pecking at him for attention. And his thoughts have returned him here. Sitting in an armchair with her homework, is Aurora.

"You look upset," she says. "Did you not like Aunt Mal's reading list?"

"Have you ever read her favorites?" Diaval asks, flopping in the armchair across from her. "They're so bleak!"

"I know," Aurora says. "Aunt Mal doesn't believe in happy endings."

"Oh," Diaval says softly. Mournfully, he supposes, since in his mind, the happy ending to this story would be him asking her to lunch, making her laugh with his newfound insights about her favorite novels, and maybe – just maybe – sharing a kiss as they bid adieu. Even a second date, if he was lucky. He can feel those dreams die inside him. The dreams of "what if".

"She just needs someone to show her happily-ever-after is just as real as doom-and-gloom," Aurora says brightly. "And you're just that person."

"Me?" Diaval asks. "Why me?"

"I've seen you before now," Aurora tells him. "Before you ever came into the bookstore. You were in the park. There was a bird with a broken wing and you were feeding it half of your lunch."

Diaval remembered that day. The bird in question had been a raven – one that now took up residence at the university, regaining strength under Diaval's watchful eye. It seemed to have been, at one time, someone's pet, with how unafraid of people it was. Diaval had taken to calling the bird Morrigan. He'd taken Morrigan in because it felt right; not because he thought anyone was watching. To hear that Aurora – watchful Aurora, who saw everything in the bookshop – had seen _that_ made him flush.

"I don't see what this has to do with your Aunt Mal," he confessed.

"You're kind," Aurora said, as if it was the most obvious thing. "And you heal broken wings. Maybe you can help my aunt. Fix _her_ wings."

She looks at him with such hope that Diaval can't bring himself to tell Aurora that people are quite different from ravens and that fixing a broken wing is far easier than fixing a broken heart.

Instead, he asks, "What should I read next? I need something to cleanse my palate of all those depressing, dystopian novels."

Blushingly, he approaches the check-out with a stack of fairy tale tomes Aurora has recommended. Mal's eyes sweep over the collection and her eyebrow cocks.

"Were my recommendations not to your liking?" she asks.

"I thought I could use a little something light-hearted after all that hopelessness," Diaval quips back. Mal's eyes widen, just a bit. It's like no one has ever disagreed with her suggestions of books. Maybe they were too afraid to.

"So you chose _fairy tales_," she says, voice thick with judgment. A single brow lifts. Diaval shrugs happily.

"If I want doom and gloom, I'll turn on the news," he tells her. "Sometimes, it's nice to escape into a book."

"But… A grown man reading fairytales? It's a bit… odd."

"Well, I never said I wasn't odd," Diaval returns. "Besides, we all need to let our inner child breathe every now and then."

"Perhaps you do, sir," Mal says. "Some of us are perfectly content to live in the real, grown-up world."

"Diaval," he says. "My name is Diaval."

That night, he starts in on Sleeping Beauty and ends with Rapunzel. But instead of evil witches cursing pretty maids, all he can think of is pretty maids cursing themselves to high towers and perpetual slumbers, where they don't have to put themselves out there.

When next he enters the bookshop, it's during school hours in the middle of the week. There's no Aurora to guide him, no Aurora to mediate. It's quiet and it looks like Diaval is the only customer. Mal is restocking a shelf in the non-fiction section. Diaval approaches her softly, as not to spook her, and he clears his throat. She turns around slowly, almost as if expecting him.

"Mister Diaval," she says. "Finished with your fairy stories already?"

"I have," he tells her.

"More to your liking?" she asks.

"They ended happily," Diaval says, noncommittally.

"I'd expect so," says Mal, returning to her work. "They're not nearly as complicated as real life."

"Real life doesn't _have_ to be complicated," Diaval tells her. "Life is what you make of it."

"I see why Aurora's taken a shining to you," she says. "She's an incurable optimist, too."

"I didn't say I was an optimist," Diaval says. "I just think you can't live your life, convinced things will always turn out for the worst."

Mal's lips turn up, ever-so-slightly. And for a moment, Diaval thinks it a trick of the light. But, no, she actually _is_ smiling. It's like the first cracks of sunlight through the clouds after a storm.

"That, Mister Diaval, is the exact definition of an optimist."

"It's just Diaval," he says. It's actually 'Doctor de Ravin', but formalities are for his students, not for pretty shopkeepers. "And so what if I'm a bit of an optimist?"

"I detest optimists," Mal says, deadpan.

Diaval starts to laugh and then he realizes he's the only one laughing. He shuts his mouth and cocks his head. _What a peculiar woman._

"So you're a pessimist, then," he says. "Glass-half-empty type of girl."

It's been a long time since anyone's called her a girl; longer still since Mal has been a girl. That much is evident by the spark in her eyes, nearly electric green in the moment.

"I'm a realist," she says.

"A realist is just a disappointed optimist, Mal," Diaval says. "If I learned anything from those wretched books of yours, it was that no one starts out hopeless."

"Were they really 'wretched'?" she asks. That smile of hers has grown, just a little, and it meets her eyes now.

"Perhaps not _wretched_," Diaval says. "But they certainly were bleak."

"You asked for dystopian literature," Mal reminds him. "It's not my fault if they weren't to your liking."

"Isn't it, though?" Diaval puffs up just a little. "I read them because Aurora told me you loved them."

Mal drops the book she's holding and it hits the ground with an unceremonious "thud". Her eyes flicker and widen, making her look somehow otherworldly. Her red mouth parts and then, just like _that_, she's pursing her lips again.

"I should have known you two were up to something," she says at long last. "It's not exactly _normal_ for a grown man to spend so much time with a ten year old girl."

"Only if he's trying to get the courage to talk to her aunt," Diaval confesses with a school-boy's smile: all at once shy and mischievous.

"Why on earth would you _want_ to?" Mal asks. "You don't even know me."

"No, I don't," Diaval says. "But I would _like_ to. I mean, there's something intrinsically fascinating about a woman who runs her own business, takes in her orphaned niece – raises her – and has a voracious love for every single book that ends with 'And they lived unhappily ever after'."

"You don't know me," Mal repeats. "Don't pretend you do."

"I'm _not_," Diaval says. "I'm just… making an observation. Saying you seem like a fascinating person. And that it would be my privilege to get to know you. If you'll let me."

Mal opens her mouth to say something, but another customer enters and it's clear that's the end of the conversation. Diaval returns to work – he has to, anyways, since he has an ornithology course to teach after lunch anyways. But he stays away for a few days. When he returns to the bookshop, it's Saturday and he stays out of Mal's line of sight, shows Aurora pictures of Morrigan on his phone, browses "Self Help/Relationships" in the hopes of finding a book on how to say he's sorry for imagining some great love affair between himself and Mal Moor.

Just as he's about to leave – closing time has all but snuck up on him – Diaval feels a figure approach him. He freezes.

"Well, well," Mal says from behind him. "It takes some courage to turn up here after our last conversation, Diaval."

He turns to face her and sees that Aurora is just a few feet away, pretending to read, and glancing up at them every few seconds.

"I just couldn't stay away," Diaval says. "Didn't seem right, to not say goodbye to the kid."

"Right. Of course," says Mal. "And… have you said your goodbyes to Aurora?"

"Well, not exactly. Never been particularly good at goodbye."

"I see," says Mal. There's a tense silence between them. Then, she says, "I've decided to let you take me out tonight."

"I- er- what?"

"I've decided to let you take me out," Mal repeats, this time as if to a particularly slow child. "I realized after our last chat that you're a particularly difficult man to dissuade."

"That's me, all right," says Diaval. "Persistent bugger."

"So, after mulling it over," Mal continues. "I decided to let you take me out so you can see what a mistake you're making."

"And that's tonight?" Diaval all but squawks. "You could have told me this _anytime_ _today_ so I could at least make some decent reservations-!"

"Nonsense," says Mal. "You were clever enough to try to get to know me through the books I love. You should be clever enough to pull together a date idea."

In the end, they end up in a café somewhere between the bookstore and the university; a kind of neutral ground. The blue and white interior is cheerful and inviting; although it makes Diaval think of the wide sky back home. He's never been a city boy, after all, and even this teaching position, this semester in the city, hasn't made him one. He tells Maleficent this when conversation hits a lull. She murmurs something that sounds vaguely like: "Well, that explains it."

"Sorry," Diaval says. "Explains _what_ exactly?"

"Why you're not like the other men I've dated," Maleficent says. Diaval perks up a little and she says, "It's a fact, not a compliment. Though, given the other men I've dated, it may as well be a compliment…"

"No prince charmings to be found in the cold, hard city?" Diaval teased.

Mal's eyes are suddenly steely, her voice, hollow: "No. I thought there were, but no."

Diaval doesn't say anything. Instead, he reaches across the table and gives her hand a small squeeze. His black eyes do all the talking. _I'm sorry. Please, don't think I'm like them. Ever._

The moment spans for what seems like minutes, but is, in reality, mere seconds. Their hands break away and soon they're talking of merrier things. Her love of books; his love of all things feathered. They finish their meal and walk back to Mal's bookshop, underneath a smoggy, city-lit sky.

"Well," Diaval says when they reach the doorstep. "I don't know about you, but that was the most enjoyable night out I've had in a long time."

"_Years_," Mal agrees. "But I'm afraid it's come to an end."

"What do you mean?" Diaval asks. "The night?"

"The night," she says. "And your ridiculous notion of… I don't know… _courting_ me."

"Mal," Diaval says. A smile wriggles onto his lips. "I hate to break it to you, but I was never 'courting' you. Life isn't a novel. No one 'courts' anymore."

"I _see_," Mal says. "But whatever this is – was- courting or dating – it ends here. Don't you agree?"

"No, I don't think I do." Diaval takes both Mal's hands in his. "Listen, Mal, I don't know what's happened to you in the past. And don't think I don't care because I _do_… But whatever it is that's made you not believe in happily ever afters… that's in the past."

He can feel her quiver in his grasp. It's like no one's ever talked to her with this gentle-but-firm tone. Like no one's ever told her it's okay to start again. And maybe no one has. Diaval gives Mal's hands a squeeze.

"I offer up to you next Saturday night and every Saturday night for as long as you'll have me," he says. "I want to spend them getting to know you; introducing you to me. We don't have to go fast or anything. All I know is you're the most cynical, most intelligent, most enjoyable person I've spent an evening with. And I'm not quite done spending my evenings with you."

Mal smiles – her mouth wide, teeth gleaming like pearls between her red, red lips. And Diaval is shocked to see it; it's the most beautiful sight he's ever beheld. She squeezes his hands back and slowly, the unchecked joy settles into a more familiar mask of coolness.

"All you had to do was ask for a second date," she teases. Then, before going inside, she plants a soft kiss on Diaval's cheek. "Next Saturday it is, then."


End file.
